


New beginnings / a close shave

by sshysmm



Series: 12 days of carnivale 2018 [5]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: 12 Days of Carnivale, Alcohol, Crossdressing, Folk Music, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 19:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17250083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sshysmm/pseuds/sshysmm
Summary: Cold, hungry, penniless, Cornelius Hickey decides to make an exception for a pretty lady (or so she seems). And Cornelius Hickey doesn't make mistakes. It's all part of his plan, even if the morning after has left him with even less than before.





	New beginnings / a close shave

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the folk song A Close Shave, Bob Vickerson's take on Patrick Street/Barrack Street.  
> Cross-dressing, seduction and deception — naturally I thought of Hickey. In this version of events, let's imagine that the original Hickey had a happier ending. Of one sort or another.
> 
> Andy Irvine's version of A Close Shave (content note: a hint of homophobia in the description of the mystery man) : https://youtu.be/CKttmV2iW74

_I came to town the other day my hard earned gold to trade,_  
_'Twas there I met a pretty maid, who did my heart betray._  
_Her lips were red as roses, her eyes a deep sky blue,_  
_Her hair as yellow as the gold, she stole from me and you._  
\--  
Her lips were red as roses, they’d probably say. Eyes a deep sky blue. Pouting at me — yeah, me — from the tavern steps. Swaying her hips and batting her lashes. Strawberry blonde and clean, long hair the colour of a gold piece.

Now, I’m not normally into that sort of thing, you understand? But the men on these docks are prudish little madams, and though it’s not for want of trying, I had utterly failed to get fucked that weekend. Not even a passing fondle. And I thought the Irish were meant to be friendly!

I know you understand me. A man likes to have his ego stroked, just as much as any other part of him. So when a tidy-looking whore offers you a free ride you’d have to be half dead to say no.

I put on the swagger, crossed the road to her, smiled that smile that on any other Sunday could make a man’s trousers drop without a word.

She was skinny, but not in that in that sickly way that’s next to normal ‘round here. Quite a strong jaw actually. So I reasoned to myself: in the dark, turn her round, after a brandy or two I’ll barely need to use my imagination.

In we went, and she even bought the brandy.

Oh, I know I should have known.

But you show me your self-restraint when you ran out of coin half a week ago, you’re living off scraps and your own wits, and someone comes along and looks at you like _at last_ the universe understands your genius, your wasted potential and sheer brilliance. She was lapping it up, I’m telling you, she let me explain to her all the ways I could straighten this shitty world out.

All right. So maybe we had a few more glasses of brandy than intended. And remember, I had eaten neither fish nor fowl nor cock for days, and the liquor, well, maybe it went to my head a bit.

She let me lead the way upstairs, as if I was in any fit state to do anything by that point. I got my shirt off, she helped, and she was quick about getting my trousers off, too. You know, I can make fast work of a fella’s fastenings, but I don’t think I even got my hands on her bodice before the brandy caught up with me.

I was out like a light. Stark naked, arse to the ceiling, drooling as I slept the sleep of the innocent and very drunk.

My first conscious thought in the morning was indeed: here’s a sneaky bastard who steals the blanket. He’s left my cheeks to chill in the morning frost! And it was a cold one, too: I could see my breath on the air and the windows were all covered with condensation.

It wasn’t a bad mattress, either, so I took the blanket about me and stayed in that bed until I could feel the goose bumps go down and my pecker come back out from where it had retreated. By now, something of the preceding events had returned to me.

There was no lady in my chamber. No sweet sigh on my pillow, no cold toes pestering me to share the covers. No matter, I thought. I’d have liked a fuck but I’ll take the peace of a long morning’s sleep instead.

It wasn’t quite as cold by the time I heard the landlord’s impatient pacing on the boards outside the room. I sat up, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and set about finding my clothes.

And here’s the crux of it: on the floor I found neither trousers nor shirt. No waistcoat, no belt, no gloves or socks.

I did find a delightful blue dress, a flouncing petticoat, two stockings and suspenders and assorted ladies’ items. And would you know it, most convenient: a shaving kit and a beautiful blonde wig, the colour of a gold piece.

My lady had been a gentleman after all! And a perfect one at that, to think ahead so kindly.

Now, never let it be said that I’m a man too proud to storm out of a place stark bollock naked. But I’ve told you it was cold, and the old man wanted his room vacating. I pulled the stockings on one at a time. I put on all the frills and laced up what had to be laced.

I wasn’t angry. A long way from it, in fact. Because this meant that the pretty piece who’d been making eyes at me last night was much more my type. I’d done an even better job of courting than thought, and I whistled as I shaved.

The colours suited me, too. I put on the wig and dress last, and I cut quite the figure. You should have seen the landlord’s face when I stepped out, shaving kit tucked away in my little silk purse.

I had no more coin than I’d had the day before, and possibly fewer wits owing to the brandy, but I was feeling good. I’d barely reached the end of the street before I got an offer from a handsome young stevedore.

Not enough money on that mark, more’s the pity. _Sorry my lad_ , I batted my lashes and played the coquette. I need a man with a month’s pay weighting down his pocket, I need a man with style and gold.

What I got wasn’t quite that.

The young thing laughing, sitting on a barrel with a mug of bitter in his hand, was not quite what I had in mind. But I heard his story as I passed: fame and glory! A romantic winter on the ice and then sunny Pacific beaches. The other side of the Empire, where anything is possible. The world turned upside down.

This man had something more valuable than gold in his pocket: a ticket out of here.

I sidled up to him, swaying my pretty blue skirts and twirling my golden tresses.

Hello, sailor.

  
\--  
_Now you might think it sinful, oh you might think it bold,_  
_To take advantage of the lads who struggle for the gold._  
_It's easy putting on a dress and drinking whiskey neat,_  
_But leave your shaving kit behind when they are fast asleep._


End file.
